Icarus Wings
by cheshirecat101
Summary: Arthur is the sun, and Eames flies far too close to him. Slash. Eames/Arthur. Character death.


**AN: **Warning: Character death.

More depressing Eames/Arthur fanfiction, with more to come. The title and allusions in the story are references to the Greek myth of Icarus, who was trapped in a prison with his father, his father made them wings, and they escaped and Icarus flew too close to the sun, causing the wax in the wings to melt. And then he plummeted to his death. So please read, review, and maybe enjoy. Thank you!

x.o.x

Icarus was trapped in a prison.

"Hello darling."

"Mr. Eames."

That cut through him like a fucking bullet. It was really the tone, he thought. No person should have a voice that was that robotic and inhuman. It cut to the quick.

But he flashed a grin anyway, ever the messy, uncouth, handsome liar, and never the man who hurt this fucking much because of this one fucking man—robot—who could cut him this deeply.

"You're in a lovely mood as ever," he said with a lopsided grin. "Did we wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? Or rather, did you wake up alone in your bed this morning?"

Arthur turned a cold stare in his direction.

"You know, I could help with that, pet," Eames said, adding a wink.

"I'm here to work, Mr. Eames, not to listen to your juvenile innuendos," Arthur said, turning back to his desk.

Eames remained smiling, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. "What's the point of life if you don't have a little fun?"

"My idea of fun is not your idea of fun."

"You've never tried my kind of fun."

"I don't think it's to my liking."

Eames chuckled. "Of course not darling, I'd forgotten that I'm far too much of a lowlife for you to associate with. However, if you'd ever like to get that stick out of your arse, let me know."

Arthur rounded on him, opening his mouth to speak, but Cobb came in at that moment and they both had to get back to work.

As Cobb started to outline the job, Eames sat with his hand supporting the side of his face, watching Arthur. How could one fucking man do this to him? This wasn't him, this wasn't the carefully composed mask he usually wore. Well, he supposed this was what was under the mask, but he felt it showed to Arthur—it must show to Arthur, that's why the man fucking _ignored _him, wasn't it? Because Arthur was the cold-hearted beast he thought he was, logic and no emotion and cold responses to Eames's warm greetings and pet names. But no, that wasn't true, because Arthur's shoulders hitched when Eames walked into a room and though his words may have been hostile, Eames knew him well enough to see that there was no malice in his eyes. Because Arthur's breath caught when Eames leaned close to him, and he closed his eyes for just longer than a blink, and he began to flush, just a little bit, when Eames was too close or when he called him 'love' or when he said something particularly vulgar. And Arthur was warm and smiled when he wanted to, and he was an adorable mess when he least wanted to be. But Arthur never smiled for him.

Arthur shifted in his chair and smoothed his tie, and a smile dashed across Eames's face. Arthur's eyes briefly flashed to his, and Eames quickly looked away and asked, "Are we supposed to be able to do this with three people, Cobb?"

Cobb returned his steady gaze and said, "Is that a problem for you, Eames?"

"No, but Arthur seems to be having a problem. That or a hemorrhage."

"I'm fine," Arthur said, his jaw clenched. "We're here for work, and Mr. Eames is the best at what he does. Although I might dislike his general character, I have no objections to working with him and maintaining a professional relationship."

"Oh give it up darling, you know you love me," Eames said with a grin. And there was that cold gaze again that cut him.

If it was so cold then why did it feel like his body was on fire?

"You—no, I won't even address that," Arthur said, turning around to face Cobb.

Eames loosened the collar of his shirt, the back of his neck beginning to perspire. "Why not?" he asked.

"Because I won't," Arthur said, folding and unfolding a creased corner of his paper to get it smooth. "I refuse to sink to your level."

"And what exactly is 'my level', dear?"

"Enough," Cobb said, his tone sharp. "Do I have to separate you two?"

"Of course not, we're peachy as always," Eames said, facing him with a humorless smile.

Cobb reluctantly turned back to the profile on the board and continued to outline their target, Arthur went back to scribbling notes—always the perfect little point man, wasn't he?—and Eames went back to stealthily watching Arthur.

As Cobb droned on, Arthur forever silent, Eames willed him to turn around, just once, or just smile or laugh or something, goddamnit, and not just sit there like a fucking statue and not move, not blink, not be human. Maybe he wasn't human. Maybe he was just a giant block of dry ice, so cold he burned. He certainly burned up Eames's subconscious. Eames didn't like natural dreaming anymore, it was too uncontrollable and fuck it, Arthur was always there and he never wanted him to leave but he shouldn't have been there in the first place and it hurt and fuck it was hot in here.

Eames took off his jacket, unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and started to roll up the sleeves. It was a paisley print today, in a garish lime green silk. The jacket, a velvet forest green, wasn't much better, but it was far too heavy and Eames needed to cool down. He should have just given Arthur a hug, right? The man was cold enough.

Eames smiled to himself for a second at this thought. It was really a sad thought, but he didn't want to think about it, so he focused on rolling up his sleeves and nothing else. He didn't want to see Arthur sitting so still as always, didn't want to think about last night's dream, didn't want to—

"Eames!"

"Yes Cobb, I'll have to imitate the mark's mother in the dream in order to get close to him," Eames said, and then looked up at Cobb from his sleeves. "Contrary to your beliefs, I was actually paying attention."

"Good, I'll leave you and Arthur to it then," Cobb said, pulling on his coat. How could he wear a coat in this heat? "I have some 'errands' to run, and I'm sure you two can amuse yourselves while I'm gone."

"If by 'amuse' you mean try to work while Mr. Eames is bothering me, then yes, I'm certain we can amuse ourselves," Arthur said, eyes on his paper as he furiously scribbled something.

"Now see darling, he even gives you an excuse to have a little fun and you immediately want to work," Eames said, grinning at him.

Arthur didn't even look up. "I want to work because it's my job. You clearly have no such aims."

"That's because my job doesn't involve pencil pushing like yours, but rather observation, and I handle that in my own way on my own time."

"On your own time had better be now because you're on my time, Eames," Cobb said, and abruptly left with a nod and a "Be good."

Arthur immediately stood up and went to his desk, setting his writing pad down as he rolled his chair in.

Eames sat still for a few seconds more, then sauntered over to Arthur's desk and leaned forward across it towards Arthur's hunched form. Arthur shrank away from him slightly but didn't look up from his work. Eames rested his weight on his forearms and leaned forward so that he was only inches away from Arthur.

Arthur flushed slightly but kept his eyes down. "You're radiating heat, Eames."

"Is that a problem for you?" Eames asked in his low, husky timbre.

Arthur remained silent.

Eames studied him, for long enough that Arthur sighed, stopped writing and put down his pen, then looked at Eames.

"What?" he asked.

"I'm mad about you," Eames said, the words coming in a rush of heat.

"What?" Arthur asked, his face going blank.

Eames attempted a smile. "I'm mad about, Arthur."

Arthur looked up at him for a moment—why were the man's eyes always so bloody calm?—and then slowly leaned up and kissed him.

Icarus got his wings.

Eames lay sweating in the bed, his limbs entwined with Arthur's. The sheets were twisted around and tangled up underneath them, but even so Eames's bare skin was hot to the touch, rolling waves of heat flooding his body. He drew in a deep breath and looked over at the beautiful sleeping man next to him. Arthur was at his best when he was a mess, a gorgeous, adorable, complete mess. And Eames loved it.

Of course, Eames loved Arthur more, but it was a part of Arthur, part of what made him so perfect. The way he walked, the way talked, the way he moved, smiled, laughed—

Eames chuckled softly at himself. Maybe he was a love-sick fool. Arthur curled up to Eames in his sleep, his head on Eames's chest. Okay, he was definitely a love-sick fool. He pulled Arthur closer and closed his eyes. This, this was bliss. Nothing could compare to this, finally having the man he'd loved and been spurned by for so long in his arms. He could have died right then and he would have been have been happy.

"Hello darling," Eames said, wrapping his arms around Arthur's waist from behind and planting a kiss on his cheek. "You disappeared this morning."

Arthur disentangled himself from Eames and turned to look at him with a flinty stare. "That's because it was a mistake."

"What?" Eames asked, his heart stopping.

"I shouldn't have done what I did, and it won't happen again." He paused, taking a breath. "I don't love you, Eames, and I never will."

He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Eames with his mouth slightly open.

"But – but then why did you say you did?" he called after Arthur.

"Because I made a mistake," Arthur said without turning around.

Eames gazed after him for a minute, his eyes hazy and dazed.

An hour later he sat on a hotel bed, down to his boxers because of the absolute, pure heat radiating through his body. He closed his eyes, willing himself to not start physically panting. This heat was worse than any climate, any fever, and it was starting to make him delirious. Why couldn't he cool down? Why was he burning up so much? Why didn't Arthur love him? Or rather, why did Arthur say he loved him but then say that it was a mistake and he didn't?

Eames shook his head. This heat was getting to him. He opened his eyes and looked at his phone; 61° outside. How was that possible? He felt like he was drowning in his own sweat and tears and it was never going to end because Arthur had locked something away deep inside of himself and he wasn't going to let it out, not for Eames and Eames couldn't take it, couldn't handle the hidden heat in Arthur's gazes, the fire he'd only released once and would never let loose again.

Eames took the gun out of the nightstand drawer and put it on the bed next to him. He reached into the pocket of his discarded pants and took out his token, the worn poker chip, which he quickly turned in his hand, checking to be sure. He knew where he was now.

The heat was overtaking him now, and in the haze of heat distortion, he thought he saw Arthur blurry before him as he picked up the pistol.

Eames smiled. "Cheers darling," he said, taking the safety off the gun, and then fired through his left temple.

And then Icarus flew too close to the sun.


End file.
